Beau had to wait for her to stop laughing to give her instructions on how not to inhale the pool water on the way back up. She sobered a bit, held her nose and went over backward with Beau’s left hand behind her, dipping her and lifting her again. Though that maneuver was a bit odd for your average swimming pool at your average cocktail party, what Anna did when she came up out of the water really made a declaration.
As soon as the water had cascaded off of her face, and before she had even wiped it away from her eyes, she was babbling in some unknown language, the words spilling out of her like little giggles, but with distinct foreign pronunciation.
“Oh my God,” said one of the audience at the shallow end. “She’s speaking Albanian, fluent Albanian, like my grandmother used to speak.” The veteran movie actor who spoke up, had an East European accent that most of the party-goers would not have been able to identify, until now.
“What’s she saying?” said the host.
“She’s telling about how much God loves her and how much she loves God. How she was made to love him and will always be devoted to God. It’s almost like a hymn, or poetry.” The actor took a deep breath and sniffled. “I don’t believe in any of this, though,” he said, and then he laughed, and his laughter turned to sobs as he spun around and headed back to the house.
Beau was helping Anna back to the stairs, noting the hasty exit of one of the witnesses. Justine and Dianna stood up and met the pair with towels, as they rose from the surface of the water. The party guests applauded for Anna and she smiled shyly at them, hunkering into the warm towel with which Dianna was engulfing her.
Beau started bantering with the host of the party about finally getting baptized. Only after a minute or so did Anna realize he wasn’t teasing.
“You know I can’t do such a thing with all these guests here,” said the A-list movie producer. “They would think I’d gone off my head.”
Beau nodded. “Some of them. But a few would join you.”
“What, after they see me coming up out of the water babbling in Albanian or something? No, I don’t think so, Beau. Not tonight. Try me again another time.”
Beau’s voice struck a chord next that Anna had never heard, not even on videos of his healing services. “Vince, you know you’re not gonna live forever. You gotta commit one way or the other, before it’s too late.”
The host lowered his chin and straightened his neck, his salt and pepper eyebrows shooting up his forehead. “You’re sounding unusually desperate. What’s gotten into you?”
“I just care about you, my friend. This is important, it’s life or death, and it’s for eternity.”
“Sounds like you’re trying to scare me into a decision. I don’t think that’ll work.”
Beau nodded. “Yeah, I know.” He finished toweling off, taking a large terrycloth robe from Dianna. He looked something like a boxer from the old days, only his face was just too pretty for that role. He looked at his friend once more and just smiled, saying no more.
In the car, on the way back home, Beau seemed pensive. Anna couldn’t stand not knowing, and she hadn’t acquired the ability to read his mind as Justine and Dianna seemed to.
“Why did you push him so hard?” she said, confident that he would recognize to whom she was referring.
Beau stuck out his lower lip and looked down at the floor, considering how much he could tell. “I wasn’t supposed to tell him, but I’m pretty confident he’s not gonna live past this weekend.”
“Oh,” Anna said, gasping. “Why couldn’t you tell him?”
Shaking his head slowly, he said, “I don’t always know the why, but I got my orders clearly enough.”
Anna didn’t recognize the rules to this new life she had entered. She certainly felt ill-equipped for it.
“Don’t worry about the way we operate,” Justine said, answering her thoughts. “You don’t have to be like us to follow him. Just be yourself and he’ll show you more and more of who exactly that is.”
Anna’s chest expanded for a big sigh, big for such a small person. The fluffy white robe overwhelmed her, pushed up over her ears as she sat in the tall leather limo seat. Not having to know all the answers seemed a grand relief just then.
A Bigger Bang
Dixon tossed the weekly newspaper onto his desk. He had seen articles from this Anna Conyers before. It was obvious to him that she had been brainwashed by Dupere and his people. Her detailed explanation of the alleged assassination reminded Dixon of the conspiracy theories around President Kennedy’s death. She was reaching, as far as he was concerned. His conclusion, however, ignored the fact that much of her evidence came from the FBI, whom he could hardly accuse of being “brainwashed.”
He sighed and then looked at his watch. Pushing away from his desk, he stood up and stretched. Sara was coming home for dinner that night and he wanted everything to be perfect for them, a welcome home, even though she had said nothing about moving back in. He stood, staring into the corner of the room for five seconds, sorting his hopes from what Sara had led them to expect. “Just a dinner,” she had said. “Just a visit.”
A knock on his office door startled Dixon to attention.
“Yeah?” he said, much louder than he had intended.
Connie opened the door slowly, as if afraid she might be attacked.
“Oh, Connie. Sorry. I was daydreaming and your knock startled me.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, trying to override his apology with her more vigorous and deserved apology.
“What is it?”
“Ah, well, your wife left a message while your were meeting with the Wilsons, and I almost forgot. She said to pick up some hamburger buns on the way home.”
“Hamburger buns?” Dixon said, taking note and nodding. “Thanks, Connie. I’m heading home, so that was right on time.”
“Okay, well, have a good dinner with Sara,” she said. When she saw Dixon’s curious look, she explained. “Kristen told me, of course. I’ll be praying for you.”
Dixon smiled down at Connie, who was still holding the door handle and looking like she was just starting to bow contritely. “Thanks for that. We can sure use it,” Dixon said, his voice low and weary.
Bag of buns in hand, Dixon strode into the kitchen, doing nothing to avoid the appearance of running a quarterback draw up the middle, with the bag under his right arm. He did stop short of stiff-arming his wife when she greeted him by the stove, however. If it had been Brett, the stiff-arm would not have been out of the question.
“Hi, honey,” Dixon said, returning her greeting, dropping the bread on the counter and giving Kristen a little kiss. The sharp smack sound still hung in the air when Brett popped into the room from the opposite direction.
“Are you guys gonna lock Sara up and deprogram ‘er?” he said, with a teasing grin. His parents looked at each other, both calculating the chances of getting away with that strategy, and also wondering where Brett had learned to ignore so many normal social boundaries.
“Not this time,” Dixon said, his voice level and dry.
“Too bad,” Brett said, as he opened the fridge and pulled out a whipped chocolate yogurt.
Kristen saw that acquisition and considered whether to say something. Having Brett well-fed and mellow certainly seemed the best approach to the dinner, so she held her peace, turning instead to encourage her husband.
“Go change, so you can start up the grill,” she said.
Dixon looked down at his dress pants and button down shirt and knew she was right. He would have to change. But that was good news, it would keep his mind occupied while he waited. Finding clothes, visiting the restroom, getting undressed, turning on the TV, getting dressed, and then standing in the middle of the room staring into the corner again, took almost half an hour. Fortunately, he wouldn’t have to explain exactly how so much time escaped. He went out the front door and around to the side of the house, avoiding questions from Kristen, and gathering the mail at the same time. He looke
d through the little pile of envelopes and flyers and thought, “Kindling.”
That day in Parkerville had been summer warm from soon after dawn. The air hung hazy and torpid still at six p.m., when the grill reached the perfect temperature. Dixon waited for Sara to arrive before putting the burgers on, wanting to serve them fresh and hot, without the temptation to leave them on too long while waiting for someone to arrive. But his prompt daughter didn’t disappoint him, arriving less than a minute after six, the time set by her mother.
“Oh, honey, it’s so good to see you,” Kristen said, following the slam of the screen door.
Dixon pulled his head out of the fridge, tomatoes and onions in hand. He dropped those on the counter next to the fridge and spun around to greet Sara. As they cheerfully exchanged hugs and hellos, Dixon couldn’t keep the surprise off his face. His little girl looked like a woman, a grown woman. She looked so different than when he had seen her last. But that was probably because he had seen her last in his mind’s eye where he had substituted a picture of a skinny twelve-year-old with pig tails and braces. Add to that the fact that she was working as a lifeguard again this summer, earning dollars by getting tan, he almost didn’t notice the little rhinestone stud in the crevice next to one of her nostrils. His first thought was, “Did she have that before?” Followed by his second thought, “Not my daughter.”
Kristen seemed to miss Dixon’s telepathic suggestion of disapproval.
“Oh, that’s cute. When did you do that?” she said, referring to the tiny bit of bling embedded in Sara’s golden brown face.
“A couple weeks ago,” Sara said, turning away, as if she could hide it from them now.
For Sara, the evening was like hopping on an exercise bike that was self-propelled. Without any effort on her part, she slipped right back into her place at the table, and in the family. Familiarity doesn’t always breed contempt. Sometimes it breeds unconsciousness. Part of that sleepwalking feeling certainly came from Sara’s clenched up nerves, restricting blood flow to her brain, as she hoped, against all probability, that they could avoid the religious divide between them, and also avoid the whole moving-back-in discussion. That had been the deal when she agreed to come to supper. She wanted to pick up some more of her things, but she also wanted to see her family, longing for a conflict-free evening of simply being together. That is, being together as a family which now included one grown child making her own decisions about her life. One can always dream.
“So, ya livin’ on the streets these days, begging for quarters?” Brett said, around a mouthful of burger, everyone at their usual places twenty minutes after Sara’s arrival.
Sara considered pretending she didn’t hear or understand the question, but she didn’t have to answer anyway.
“Brett! Behave yourself. No one needs you stirring up trouble,” his mother said.
Dixon had decided ahead of time to go for a killing-with-kindness approach. He picked up on Brett’s comment with a more serious question. “Is there anything you need done around your place? You know, handyman stuff.”
Everyone at that table knew that Dixon was referring to himself as the handyman in question. They also knew that this was a very generous characterization of his skills with a hammer or screw driver. Sara appreciated the gesture, nonetheless.
“No thanks, Dad. It’s nice of you to offer.” She smiled at him briefly, internally sorting how dangerous it would be to discuss specifics of her living arrangement. “The place is pretty new, and Kim’s dad did a bit of work when we first moved in, you know loose hinges and drawer handles. Nothing serious.”
Neither of her parents knew exactly how she managed to arrange the move into an apartment, including how the girls were able to sign a lease at eighteen years apiece. The mention of Kim’s father, Will Crenshaw, introduced the likelihood that he had signed for them. Dixon tamped down an awakening resentment that the Crenshaw family was facilitating his daughter’s delinquency. He glanced internally at that deprogramming idea Brett had mentioned, but shut himself down in that direction, as soon as he considered it. He cleared his throat and got up from the table.
“Anyone need any more to drink?”
They had each been allowed a soda for the meal. The rule in the house was one soda a day, and no more. Dixon’s careless offer sounded as if there were no more rules.
“Sure, I’ll have another root beer while you’re up,” Brett said, knowing an opportunity when he saw one.
Again, Kristen opted for silence, in the hope that Brett would behave himself if his stomach was satisfied. Dixon glanced at his wife and, hearing no objection, headed for the kitchen and a couple of cold sodas.
Brett thanked his dad, when he returned, and then asked for another bending of the rules. “Okay if I drink this in my room while I watch the A’s?” He had a tiny TV with a color picture tube that was older than he was. But it worked well enough for an isolated Oakland fan in a Giants house.
“Okay, just this once,” Kristen said, anxious to get Brett on his way, as if he was a ticking bomb.
“Great, thanks!” Brett said. He lifted his soda can for his sister to see and raised his eyebrows, reminding her of the new leniency he had described back when he caught her sneaking into the house.
As the other three rose to clear the dishes, Dixon made a suggestion. “Hey, why don’t we watch a movie in the living room? We can watch something Brett would ruin with his moaning and eye-rolling.”
“You mean a chick flick?” Kristen said.
Sara laughed. Her dad had tolerated far more romantic comedies than Brett could possibly bear. Though it was a generous offer, it wasn’t unprecedented, as were so many other things that evening.
“Sounds good to me,” Sara said, glad for something other than an evening of grilled daughter to follow the hamburgers.
Kristen and Sara agreed that Dixon could choose the movie from Kristen’s collection of romances. These were all movies she liked, and mostly movies Sara liked, so it seemed safe to commission the man with the girl-movie selection.
Sara nearly laughed out loud when she saw that her dad had selected a movie featuring one of Beau Dupere’s best buddies, Randy Cooper. Apparently, Dixon wasn’t following Beau as closely as Sara was, so he must not have known of the connection. That realization was actually encouraging to Sara, a bit of hope that her dad wasn’t totally obsessed with Beau.
“Oh, that’s a good one. We haven’t seen that for a while,” Kristen said when she saw Dixon’s pick.
Sara looked at the cover, while Dixon setup the electronics. He and Brett were the only ones who knew the magic combination of remotes and buttons to switch the TV and sound system over from cable programming, or gaming console, to playing a movie. That was about as handy as Dixon was around the house.
The picture of Randy Cooper on the DVD case showed a much younger man than the one she had seen on Beau’s Web site recently. The story there was of the often-rehabbed star finally going for the ultimate rehab and letting Beau baptize him in somebody’s pool. Sara prayed a little prayer on Randy’s behalf, hoping this latest rehab would be the one that sticks.
Sara sat sideways on the couch, her bare feet up on the cushions, leaning back on a small stack of throw pillows piled against the arm. Dixon occupied his usual easy chair and Kristen curled up at the other end of the couch with Sara. They could have sliced this scene out of any day three months prior, or from the future they had expected, as long as they didn’t look inside the heads of each person in that room. The movie, no one’s favorite particularly, wasn’t enough to distract any of them from the huge unspoken questions between them. It was, however, enough to keep them from talking about anything substantive, until Brett interrupted the movie near the end.
“Hey, did you guys hear about the bomb at Beau Dupere’s house?” he said, startling them with his volume before shocking them with his news.
All three of the adults said, “What!” in near unison.
“Where did you he
ar this?” Dixon said, over the noises of panic and confusion from the others.
“I forgot to turn off the TV after the A’s game ended and the news came on. It just happened.”
Dixon looked at the clock and then grabbed a remote to switch to the TV channels. In less than half a minute, he found a station that was broadcasting live from Malibu. Brett took a seat in the middle of the couch, next to Sara who had sat up straight at Brett’s news.
The reporter on the scene was speaking. “The police aren’t giving us any more specifics on that, but we did talk to a couple of the protesters who witnessed the explosion and what followed. At least two of them saw what looked like Molotov cocktails hit the north side of the house. One also said they saw a fire breakout at the location where the original firebombs seemed to be launched. This point was confirmed by the presence of an ambulance and emergency medical personnel working on someone about fifty yards from the house. And this is where it gets really interesting. Several bystanders say they saw Beau Dupere come running away from the house soon after the fire had been quelled by firefighters. He ran right to where we had seen emergency personnel treating someone away from the house. Those who were close enough to see, said that Dupere rushed in to where the injured person was and, within a minute, turned and walked back toward the house more calmly.”
The anchorman in the studio interrupted the reporter at this point. “Rolly, have you found anyone who can confirm that Beau Dupere actually wanted to . . . ah . . . well, to help the injured person there?”
Rolly nodded vigorously and said, “Most of it is speculation, because officials won’t comment, and Mr. Dupere is back inside the compound and not talking to reporters. But bystanders did say that they heard that this was why he rushed outside, that is, to help someone who had been injured by that other fire which was witnessed by the crowd.”
“Back to the damage on the house,” the anchorman said, “do we know for sure that no one in the house was injured?”
If You Really Knew Me (Anyone Who Believes Book 1) Page 25